


Purple

by WalkTheStarsWithMe



Series: Color Spectrum [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Implied Relationships, Pain, Please Don't Kill Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:32:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkTheStarsWithMe/pseuds/WalkTheStarsWithMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not easy getting over your best friend's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Icanwritesee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/gifts).



> Filled request for "icanwritesee". I wrote about purple, but kinda glossed over the "purple shirt" bit of the prompt, whoops ^^;
> 
> ~Alder
> 
>  
> 
>   
> P.S.: Let's pretend I didn't accidentally leave this in my drafts for a whole week thinking it was already posted.  
> 

The bruises were purple, John remembered. Purple and blue-black, dashed across the hollows of Sherlock’s pale face. The long nights after were purple too, albeit deeper; dark lavender stretched across the sky, tiny pinpricks of stars poking through. Sometimes on these nights John drank himself to sleep, but other times he just drank and drank until he could barely breathe, bitter wine staining his lips red and violet.

He kept Sherlock’s shirt. Just one. The dark purple one that had stretched tight across the detective’s chest whenever it was worn. It smelled of Sherlock sometimes, but John’s handling it made the tiny wisps of Sherlock’s scent fade fast.

Sometimes in the day, the lonely purple nights still clung to him, like a shadow, but a shadow with claws that could catch and cling, and teeth that could sink into his chest and leave wounds that would never heal. John hated these days, especially once his compassionate leave was up and he had to return to work. He hated the sympathy cards, hated how his co-workers tiptoed past him, either averting their eyes or staring too long. Molly Hooper, she was the worst at this, bumping into John and mumbling an _I’m sorry_ that he knew extended past their accidental meeting. But John didn’t hate her; he knew she loved Sherlock too.

_S’alright, Molly. I’ll be okay._

Someday, John hoped, it would all stop. The drinking, the hating would stop. The cards and the co-workers would stop. And then everything would go back to what it was before then, before Sherlock. It was a generic wish, John knew, but who could blame him? It was all John had left now.

A purple wish.


End file.
